Wednesday, 5 February 2014

The things we let consume us.

These are the things we let consume us.

This is the phrase that has been going round my head for an hour, as I tidy my kitchen, as I sweep the black and white tiles with a red and black brush, as I brush the cut ends of spring onions into the palms of my hands.

It is all about that let.

We talk about obsessions as if they were natural disasters, tidal waves sweeping over our barricades. Or at least, I do. We talk about obsessions as if they were not things we ourselves had invited, by making soft hinged entrances, by leaving crumbs by the door.

But I am forever opening myself to consumption. Or at least, I cannot refuse it when it shows up unasked.

I am thinking about compulsions and I am pulling molten emmental from jalepeno-topped toast and smudging it against my teeth. I am thinking about compulsions and I am staring at a low-lying yellow moon.

I am thinking about compulsions and I would like to give up on the things I invited in; I would like to stand firm at the door. This is how it works in fables and fairytales, always. You must issue the invitation. But.

What happens when you refuse to trade with things that dwell beneath bridges? What happens if you sew your lips shut and keep all the Bloody Marys sealed up inside?

I have been thinking about obsessions and I want to confess that of late I have let myself fall into them like a game of trust where you close your eyes, spread your arms wide, and collapse into the group’s waiting arms.

I did not mind if they let my skull split on the pavement because I was so tired of keeping my back straight that any alternative seemed worth a whirl.

I still. I still do not mind.

The yellow moon drifts behind darkness and I am thinking about obsessions and the rhythm of words. I would like to write everything down.

I would like to consume it. And I was lying a moment ago. I am prostrate and waiting for everything to come.

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